Ten Years of Waiting
by Rainbor123
Summary: Have you ever wondered about Sirius' years in Azkaban? Or how he escaped?


**Well, I obviously do not own Harry Potter. Also, to anyone reading this who wants my opinion, I would suggest reading this in the driest way possible. I feel as though it makes the story better.**

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The day is like all of the others. Bleak. Gray. Completely devoid of sunlight or anything that is even remotely cheery. Filled with a cold that brings memories of a past half forgotten and makes me shiver in a sorry attempt to warm any possible fraction of my body. It doesn't work, of course. I mean, I am literally just a pile of bones with skin stretched all over. What else could you expect to feel when your sole purpose is to suck all of the light and warmth out of all living creatures? Now, I know what you must be thinking, that I could try and leave this prison, get out of this horrendously monotonous place and find somewhere cheerier. The only problem is, everywhere I go freezes over in response to my very being. It is kind of disheartening to simply walk by someone and cause them to shiver in what I can only assume is a mixture of cold and fright. It leaves me completely aware of what exactly I am; personally, I believe that it was in poor taste for us to be named "dementors," as I am not demented at all, thank you very much. I am simply a creature that has little control over the effects it has over the environment around it. It is not my fault that others are afraid of me, or that frost trails after my every movement. I believe it would make me happy if I felt warmth, or maybe even scrounged enough motivation to go outside, but for now I'm stuck in an endless cycle of bleak, dreary halls that I am as much a prisoner in as those who have committed such atrocious crimes.

In all my time in Azkaban, I can make one solid conclusion about this place: I do not like it here. Not at all. I mean, I've never been anywhere else in all my time as a dementor, but that matters not. Not only are the prisoners psychopathic, but everything inside the prison is meant to break the human spirit. Dementors have spirit, too! At least, I think so. And being inside this place wears me away. I don't actually know how long I've lived here, but I have seen multiple prisoners fade into the nothingness of death. I do not know how long an average human life span is, but I'm sure this means I've been here for some time. I've noticed that humans don't do well with the type of punishment employed here, eventually leading them to die quicker, as the solitary confinement that is prevalent seems to distort the minds of the prisoners a little. I do know quite a bit about the deaths of these prisoners, as I am the one that collects the dead bodies and provides the autopsies. All of them die of natural causes, but I do not think that they would have died if they were not here. I know that the prisoners are in here for a reason, after all, I read the files, but is is very hard to watch, and no matter how many times I try to approach a human to give them a little company, they flinch away from me! There is such stigma placed around dementors! Every person in here cowers away in fear when I pass by, even that crazy Lestrange woman. I know all of the prisoners that reside within these halls by name and yet, none of them can tell me apart from the other dementors. I would be more hurt, but I don't know any of the other dementors either. I don't know if they feel like me. I don't know If they can talk, or if they have thoughts. I assume so, because I do not understand why I would be the only dementor with these capabilities, but I've never heard anything from the others to suggest that they are anything other than the mindless beasts that the Ministry claims need controlling.

I guess I could try to initiate conversation, I mean, I can talk. Not very well, mind you, but enough to get the point across. And although my voice is a little raspy, a little airy, it's still good. I have quit a bit of practice, as I have a tendency to talk to myself. Spending all of my life alone while surrounded by strangers means that I don't have a lot of people (or creatures) to talk to.

Today we got a new prisoner. As I make my rounds through each corridor, I can hear his footprints echo against the grim halls of the prison, reinforced by the clinking of his chains. I get a glimpse of him as he is escorted to his cell. Even with the red rims around his pale eyes, the grey was still a beautiful stormy color. The pallor of his skin contrasted starkly against his black hair, and he gave off a feeling of grave intensity.

I soon learn that he has been interned for many counts of murder, both muggle and magical. His name is Sirius Black. I find that his name entirely too appropriate for the setting of his new residence, which is prison cell 659. 659 used to hold some funny little man named Brutus who liked little girls too much and liked even more to string them up by their entrails and play with them; he talked about it to himself a lot, and I do not find myself missing Brutus at all. I did not like the old resident of 659, but I like Sirius. Many times when I float by his cell, he is humming a little tune and then he flashes me a smile; although, that smile fades quickly when no one returns it. I often hear him telling himself stories of his past, often little anecdotes about men named James or Remus. His stories always make me laugh, and it is nice to get a break from the grim tone of Azkaban, whose prisoners normally only threaten, or laugh in a manner I can only describe as a manacle cackle. Listening to Sirius hum or tell these stories is the first time I've felt anything other than dread since I woke up. It makes me sad to slowly watch this bright young man run out of stories to amuse himself with, as he slowly forgets all of the tunes he would so merrily hum to keep the quiet at bay. He withers away into the husk that takes over a body in Azkaban, and I can't stand it.

Many cycles of the moon pass, and the sun goes down and comes up. To be honest, I never know what day it is, or really how time passes anymore. When I was young to this life, I would count the days, but that no longer matters to me, and there was never much point to it anyway.

One day, I decide to do something about the slowly numbing prisoner of 659 that I have taken an unorthodox liking to.

One thing to know about us: dementors are independent creatures. If I see another dementor leading a prisoner away, then I know that the dementor is leading the prisoner for a reason. We do not get orders from anyone, no matter what the Ministry is trying to push on us, and we do not question each other. It has been like this since I started here, and it comes in handy. I believe this phenomenon has something to do with the fact that it is challenging to muster up the motivation to do anything other than what is normally done, and therefore highly improbable that any of us are doing something that would not be condoned by the Princeps. The Princeps is a dementor that directs all of the incoming prisoners and incoming dementors. It is who lead me to the morgue and laid a body on my table, who showed me the walking pattern for my rounds. I have not heard it talk, but it was made clear that the dementors that run this prison care for nothing other than keeping the prisoners contained. That is the one rule that the dementors keep- guard the cells. It matters not if a prisoner dies, but do not allow any to escape.

As I once again float my way through my rounds, I pass by 659. Sirius does not look well, and it saddens me. His cheekbones are very prominent and his eyes appear to be sinking ever so slowly into his skull. This look makes my decision for me, and I quickly move towards him and motion him forward. He looks wary, and rightfully so, considering I am the reason children have nightmares.

"Come." I state, my dry voice grating along the silence of his chambers. I wave my skeletal hand in front of the lock and the resulting click of it unlocking resounds, obviously shocking the still confused man.

I walk forward and he follows. After a short period of time, he appears to collect himself and finally figures out how to respond. "I didn't know dementors could speak."

I hum in agreement.

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 **So there it is- my first attempt at a Harry Potter fic and a plot bunny that has been hopping around in my head for a while. There are many different ways I could take this, following the canon (after all, it is never stated how Sirius gets out) or abandoning the original story and completely messing it up. Tell me if there is a path that you would prefer, if you have any ideas about where/how this story could go, or any feedback in general. I would love to hear from anyone about any thoughts, or places where I made a mistake (I don't have a beta, so I really don't have an easy way to check for those.)**


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